


Paperwork and Phones

by DesperatelyObsessional



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, British Government!Sherlock, Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, DI!John, Fluff, John hates paperwork, Kinda, M/M, Mofftiss have good dialogue, Occupation Swap AU, Relationship Swap AU, Sherlock is a texter, kinda cracky?, more like I steal snippets of dialogue, mycroft holmes/Greg Lestrade - Freeform, only a bit tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 16:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11316798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesperatelyObsessional/pseuds/DesperatelyObsessional
Summary: Negotiating with hostile governments,Dealing with terrorist groups,Subtly influencing the world order,It's all in a day's work for Sherlock Holmes, but nothing stresses him out like his little brother, Mycroft.-----Or, Sherlock is the British Government and loves Detective Inspector John Watson.





	1. The Call

**Author's Note:**

> I was reading a body swap AU, and this idea bounced around in my head, refusing to leave me alone until I wrote it out.
> 
> Because I got such a lovely response, I decided to flesh it out a bit- turn in into a multiple chapter story. 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think, comments are my own personal brand of heroine. Also, let me know if there's anyone or anything you'd like to see appear or happen, I'm kinda browsing for ideas right now.

                The British Government was sprawled across the plush coach with an arm placed over his handsome face and a moody sigh leaving his lips, desperately trying to ignore the wretched, unending roar of the government jet.

                “Oh, Sherlock dear. There’s Chinese chatter MI6 thinks you should see.”

                Mrs. Hudson looked at her employer with a combination of concern and exasperation, smoothing out her plum purple pencil skirt. The chatter was less of an actual concern and more an excuse to get Sherlock out of his strop.

                “Unless if it’s an 8, Mrs. Hudson, tell them I’ll be briefed after we land,” he said.

                In a ridiculously childish move, Sherlock covered his face with a pillow and turned away from his PA, not caring about the wrinkles forming in his expensive suit.

                Mrs. Hudson wasn’t quite sure how he managed to fit his 6 foot tall frame on that small couch, let alone _why_ , considering there was a perfectly functional bed in a separated area on the plane. However, the surliness wasn’t new; Mr. Holmes’ moods were as mercurial as the governments he dealt with.

                “We knew it was a long shot, Lovey. We tried our best. It’s not your fault that the Lieutenant refused to negotiate. No one could have done any better.” Her voice was a cooed consolation, naturally comforting and empathetic, though she mentally made a note to ask MI6 about the possibility of an airstrike on the stupid man’s main commercial farm.

A petulant huff came from the couch.

                “I could have done better… Ties to the Opium trade- there’s always something. It was so obvio-”

                _BBBRRRINNNGGGGG._

Sherlock’s phone blared, interrupting his over-dramatic monologue; the man turned to glance questioningly at Mrs. Hudson, because the woman kept track of everything. Including his phone.

                The British Government’s iPhone was set to vibrate; the setting was indiscriminate and all-encompassing from the Prime Minister to the Chairman of the United Nations, no one got a ringtone. There were only two exceptions to the rule.

                “Which is it?” his voice was resigned, “Terrorist attack? Or Mycroft?”

                Mrs. Hudson sighed as well, after she’d checked the accompanying text, knowing the rest of the day would be a scheduling nightmare. It always was when the younger Holmes was involved.

                “Mycroft.”

                With a pained look, that clearly said, _I’d prefer the former_ , Sherlock heaved himself up from the couch and took his phone from Mrs. Hudson, answering the call.

                Before the first word was spoken, Sherlock already began to pace the length of the jet, preparing himself for the stress that his younger brother always seemed to throw at him. One hand tugged at his messy, black curls, and the other held the phone up to his ear.

                “Sherlock Holmes.”

                “Mr. Holmes. I have your brother on the line, from a Scotland Yard number,” PA #2 stated, her voice was meek through the phone, knowing that her employer was not going to be happy.

                “Is it a prison line? Did the sentient couch potato get himself arrested? Again?”

                Mrs. Hudson jumped at Sherlock’s irritated tone, wordlessly starting the painful task of rescheduling the rest of today’s meetings. The day wouldn’t be salvageable- she knew from experience.

“I… believe so, sir.”

                There was a pause in Mr. Holmes’ pacing, as he processes that, before Sherlock orders, “Send Mrs. Hudson the details of his arrest, immediately.”

                “Shall I patch Mr. Mycroft through, sir?”

                “Yes.”

                “Reminder, sir, the call with be recorded by Scotland Yard’s system.”

                There’s a click, and then Mycroft’s pained breathing floods Sherlock’s ear.

                And suddenly all of Sherlock’s anger and irritation, built up over the past few minutes, was washed away with a tidal wave of parental concern and worry. The idea Mycroft could be hurt hadn’t even crossed his mind.

                “Mycroft? Are you alright?” he questions, even though he _knew_ his little brother was at a police station.

                “Yes. Just… a little bruised.”

                Sherlock couldn’t sense any dishonesty in the statement, and forced his posture to relax as he continued his pacing.

                “I didn’t think skin discoloration was grounds for arrest, but then again, I’m a couple days behind on local London legislation.”

                “I was helping out with a police case, and I may have provoked a junkie.” Mycroft’s tone was flat, emotionless as always, but Sherlock could hear the embarrassment coloring his tone.

                “Again. I still don’t see how that got you arrested.” In contrast to his younger brother’s blank tone, Sherlock’s voice clearly displayed the _irritation, worry, love, parental concern, anger_ he was feeling at the moment.

                “Right. Well…”

                “Mycroft.”

                “I attacked him, unprovoked. They stuck me in here.” The tenor of Mycroft’s voice deepened, so subtle a different, no one else would have noticed, but Sherlock knew: _Lie_.

                “I had a meeting with the Director of MI6 today, which I have to cancel in order to come and get you out of this mess. If I am going to be compromising national security for you, I’d like a decent reason, Mikey.”

                “Don’t call me that.”

                “Then tell me why you were arrested, _Mikey._ ”

                “Fine. I wasn’t officially supposed to be at the crime scene, okay? I questioned a junkie, who attacked me, and the police saw me. They arrested me for obstruction of justice and trespassing,” A hint of disappointment tinted Mycroft’s voice, and Sherlock’s hands wanted to soothingly pet the man’s auburn hair.

                “Thank you. I’ll be there to smooth everything over in-,” Sherlock turned to look at Mrs. Hudson.

                “ETA to Heathrow Airport is 45 minutes, Sherlock dear.”

                “An hour and a half. Until then, you can think up a proper excuse to tell Mummy about the bruises,” Sherlock suggested.

                “Can’t you just send someone to bail me out like last time?”

                “No. Because last time I was in Berlin, meeting with the prime minister. This time, I’m already en route to London. If it’s any consolation, I promise not to embarrass you.”

                “Ugh.”

                “And Mycroft?”

                “Yes?”

                “We _will_ be talking about why you were at a crime scene in the first place, when our conversation isn’t being recorded.”

                “I didn’t do anything wrong. Why do you always have to _meddle_?”

                “I’ll be there in an hour… _Mikey._ ” Sherlock flashed a tired smile at the ceiling of the plane.

                “I loathe you.” Mycroft’s flat voice stated, before a click, signaled the end of the call.

                “Mr. Mycroft hung up, sir,” PA #2’s voice informed.

                “Alright.”

                Sherlock ended the call, and tucked the phone into his wrinkled slacks. Mrs. Hudson handed him an iPad with Mycroft’s arrest papers pulled up; Sherlock settled back into the couch, skimming over the forms, and figuring out the best way to erase the incident.

                “Is Mycroft alright?” Mrs. Hudson asked, “Poor dear. Always getting himself into trouble.”

                Sherlock leaned back. With his crumpled suit and eyes tired from insomnia, he was the picture of fatigue; the government official had been in Syria for the past week, doing ground and field work, with little food or rest, only for it to end in failure, and after all that- this incident was enough to give him a headache.

                “A little roughed up, that’s all. Mycroft rarely leaves the house. I never hear from him. Yet, when he does decide to burn a few calories, maybe even see the sun; his first move is to go and get himself arrested. What am I supposed to do with that?” Sherlock questioned.

                Mrs. Hudson sighs, “Bail him out. Threaten the officers involved. Erase the records of his arrest.”

                The things the British Government did for his brother.


	2. Incompetence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets John... That's about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is a really short chapter, but it's been a while since I updated this and I really just wanted to get something posted, so I can get myself back in the groove. Let me know if you have any ideas or suggestions about what should happen, I'm still shopping for ideas so...

 

It was exactly an hour and 24 minutes when Sherlock Holmes barged into Scotland Yard, throwing the front doors open and striding up to the main desk with an irritated look on his face.

The man- Renard Hulk according to the nametag- sat with a slumped posture, muscles lightly cording his arms and legs positioned ready to get up. _On probation- normally does rounds and field work._ When Sherlock tapped on the counter, Renard squinted at him disinterestedly, eyes unnaturally dilated pupils, _could be medication, or caffeine but the squinting combined with extreme dilatation made that unlikely._ “Yes?”

"Mycroft Holmes. Where is he?”

“Um,” the man staggeringly typed- _cocaine maybe though jittery motor control is heavily associated with meth-_ something out on the computer in front of him. “He’s being questioned right now, but you can see him afterwards.” Renard halfheartedly gestured toward the waiting room before turning back to his phone.

“That didn’t answer my question. Where is Mycroft Holmes, specifically?” Sherlock asked, feeling annoyance bubble in his chest. He already had to deal with attitude and insubordination from Mycroft- he wasn’t going to tolerate any more of it.

Renard looked up at him, frowning _,_ “I can’t give you that information, just not possible- security reasons- we can’t actually give that information out because it’s a safety hazard, but I’m sure you can wait and then they’ll let you know? I mean it won’t be a long wait. It’s fine, they’ll bring him out.”

_Methamphetamine._

Typically, Sherlock would smile, compliment the man’s tie or whatever, and ask nicely. But with the week in Syria that he just had, the British Government was hardly in the mood for anything but going home and _dying_.

So, instead, he slammed a hand against the counter, and commanded through clenched teeth, “You have _three seconds_ to tell me where I can find Mycroft Holmes or I _will_ call your commanding officer and tell him the man manning the front desk, the face of the police station and the officer currently on probation, is high as a kite on Meth.”

The man’s squinty eyes widened and he opened his mouth to stutter apologies and plead _oh please no I’m not high I promise it’s just the caffeine-_

“Shut. Up. Where is Mycroft Holmes?”

With a shaking hand, Renard pointed to a hallway on the left wall, in the middle of the bullpen, “Right down there. Interrogation room four. Please don’t tell anyone.”

It might be hypocritical to criticize a fellow drug user, but honestly how stupid does one have to be to walk into Scotland Yard high?

_Then again, I’ve done that, too._

But, one should know that they lack the competency to go undiscovered.

“I won’t,” he said, watching with a sick sadism that came from his irritation with Mycroft, as the Renard relaxed. “But she will.” Nodding at Mrs. Hudson, who’d been standing behind him silently the entire time.

He doubted Mrs. Hudson would actually rat the man out, but a good dose of fear kept the gears turning; Renard would be more likely to cooperate with Mrs. Hudson if he was terrified for his job and meager income, which meant Sherlock could go home sooner, which lovely since it was of the utmost importance that Sherlock curl up in bed and die as soon as physically possible.

And then, he turned on his heel, walking through the throngs of police officers with a confident, determined look on his face, making police officers frown, _who is he?_ , but no one was confident enough to actually _stop him_.

After all, in that moment, Sherlock looked like one of the most dangerous things on the planet: A rich white man with an agenda.

He pushed past officers and walked around desks to get to the hallway Renard had pointed out.

_Incompetence. Have to contact the superintendent about that… I shouldn’t be able to just walk into Scotland Yard._

_Interrogation room 1… 2…_

It was only after he was halfway down the hall that officers started to object.

“Sir?”

“That’s a restricted hallway.”

“Sorry, you can’t go there.”

_Interrogation room 4_

Of course, Sherlock’s response was to quickly slip into the room and lock it behind him.

“Mycroft, I am truly going to murder you one of these-” Sherlock said as he turned away from the door to face the room and Mycroft, only to see another man looking at him distrustfully, one hand resting on the gun at his hip.

“Oh, hello,” Sherlock stated, eyes narrowing on the gun at the officer’s hip.

“Thanks for coming, Sherlock,” Mycroft called from a table in the corner.

“Hi,” the unknown officer smiled, “Detective Inspector John Watson, can I help you with something?”


End file.
